


Of Glitches and Grenades

by dragonofdispair



Series: Unrelated Prompt Responses [5]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Family Dynamics, Gen, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 16:32:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3699257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Self-soothing can take on a multitude of forms. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it works better when someone else understands what’s happening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Glitches and Grenades

**Author's Note:**

> So… this was written for tf_promptorama’s weekly challenge “SICs from any continuity — Working with what I was given” but it has has wandered so far from the prompt that I only hope it can still be considered a fill. The first things I wrote in my notebook really were: “TFP Ultra Magnus: This newest incarnation of the Wreckers are far from suitable Autobot material, but he works with what fate has given him” and “Wheeljack: One grenade — adapting to fluid circumstances?” and somehow my brain took those and decided to run with scissors and spit out… this:

.

.

It had been a hectic week. When he’d arrived, the Autobots (so-called “Team Prime”… ridiculous name. If it hadn’t been Optimus _Prime_ he’d be making his objections to he’d put them all on report for unprofessional behavior) had been ineffectual and scattered. Not that he was discounting their accomplishments. Ultra Magnus wouldn’t so much as dream off it. Standing alone against the forces the Decepticons could (and had) brought to bear against them for as long as they had was… remarkable.

… Would have been more remarkable if they’d followed protocol…

No. He shouldn’t think like that. His Prime _approved_ of the laxness that had characterized the small group since they’d settled on this planet. He would not question his Prime. _Pit_. He’d seen how well it _worked_ , and he had to admit he’d rarely seen a better group of Autobots, even if they were deplorable soldiers.

Still… he couldn’t help but _think_ …

…He couldn’t help but _imagine…_

And so in what had to be one of the most pathetic of useless, self-indulgent, self-soothing behaviors he’d ever witnessed, he spent his time on watch at the perimeter of the human military base that was now their home and silently compiled reports. Not reports he would ever submit — no. If he submitted these he’d be inviting Ratchet to diagnose him with Logic-Loop Mismanagement Disorder (remarkably similar, at least in some of the symptoms manifested to what humans called Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) and he did not want to endure the cranky medic’s idea of “therapy”. He did not have LLMD. Nor did he have any of its related processor glitches — it was not a disorder to prefer that a military be run according to the strict protocols. Not at all. And he didn’t need anymore nosy medics telling him about problems he didn’t have.

But if he  _didn't_... protocol existed for a  _purpose_ , and if he didn't follow it, then... well his thoughts never actually got that far, but it was something horrific, he was sure. After all, the protocols existed for  _legitimate reasons,_ and those  _legitimate reasons_ saved lives, so... _  
_

So he carefully went through the Autobots’ logs that had survived the destruction of their Jasper Nevada base, marking every incident of insubordination, refusal to follow orders, talking back to a commanding officer, breaking the secrecy edicts, destruction of Autobot-owned equipment, and every other bit of misbehavior he could find. He wrote out the reports and filed them in his own processor. Each report he not-filed soothed a bit of the anxiety he could never completely be rid of or even adequately explain.

… Check the infraction and pull up the appropriate form… fill in the details… sign it… archive… Check the next infraction and repeat… and with each one his axel relaxed, his suspension released indescribable tension and his plating loosened.

The rumble of a high-end sports car’s engine coming up behind him undid hours of work. This particular ‘bot… this _Wrecker_ … had the fewest not-filed reports to his name, but only because the majority of the time he’d been on this planet could be filed — _not-filed_ — under one of the most extreme single infractions any of them had committed: dereliction of duty.

“Optimus sent me out here to relieve you from watch,” Wheeljack said, his high performance engine almost drowning out the beginning of the sentence as he drove up next to Ultra Magnus and came to a stop, bumper even with his front grille.

“I am relieved, soldier,” he replied automatically, feeling several wires relax in response. He supposed he should return to the base at this point, but Wheeljack hadn’t said anything about Prime requiring his presence, and he was still too stressed to deal well with the sanctioned chaos within the base itself. Pit, if he tried driving back now his tires would likely squeal in over-torqued protest. So he stayed where he was instead, filling out imaginary reports and hoping that Wheeljack continued to feel no need to fill up the silence with inane chatter.

For an hour, just long enough for his suspension system to feel like it wasn’t about to snap at the slightest movement, it seemed that Ultra Magnus’ hope would be realized, but then the green and white Lancia heaved a great sigh from his vents and sunk on his own suspension. “We all got our own glitches, Big-M.”

“That’s disrespect to a superior officer,” Magnus snapped out before he could help himself, and he flicked his wipers a few times in annoyance when he realized what he’d done. Maintaining the Wreckers’ cohesion was more important than protocol — he _agreed with Optimus_ about that — and Wheeljack had such a distinct hatred of said protocol that he’d abandoned the Wreckers once rather than deal with Ultra Magnus and his adherence to it once before. Their situation on Earth was such that that they could not afford a repeat.

He fully expected Wheeljack to drive off in a huff, or snap back… both would have been in-character for the impulsive sports car, and Magnus prepared to swallow his pride and his ( _nonexistent_ ) anxiety to apologize, but Wheeljack just shrugged with his entire chassis. “Put me on report,” he snarked back, “What’s OP gonna do? Put me in the brig?”

Even if Prime were so inclined, their facilities currently did not include a brig. Nor was the application of a… a _nickname_ sufficient enough an offense to warrant brig time. At most it was another black mark on an already saturated permanent record. Meaningless, and all it would do is attract Ratchet’s unwanted attention. Still he filled out the appropriate form, then a second for the offense against Prime’s designation, signed them both and archived them in his processor.

His wipers slowed their flicking across his dry windshield.

Wheeljack’s rearview mirror had rotated to regard the blue semi-truck and Magnus ceased the nervous tick with a single loud _screeech!_ as he slammed his wipers down and forced them to stay there. Wheeljack just grunted in response, realigning his mirror to once again look out his rear window.

Magnus feared he’d comment, but instead the white car just said, “I’m really good at causing explosions,” which caused Magnus to tilt his headlights in a slight frown. That had been too abrupt a change of subject. “Really good. Before I was transferred to the Wreckers it happened every mission. Energon depots, weapon caches, research labs, enemy ships… you name it: BOOM! You could almost say I was _compulsive_ about blowing the enemy up, rather than… I don’t know… shooting them or something sensible like that.” Ah… Now Magnus understood. Wheeljack believed that he could obliquely reference Magnus’ problems by revealing a similar glitch of his own. “It’s one of two reasons I only carry one grenade now.”

For a long moment Magnus debated how to answer. On one wheel, he recognized that this was a step in the right direction. This overt demonstration of overly familiar behavior was a sign that he was becoming part of what Prime called a “family” and would lead to greater group cohesion and efficiency, and correspondingly to greater mission success and kill ratios. On the other, he wanted to reprimand Wheeljack for prying into the private business of a commanding officer. Processor spinning with the conflict, he couldn’t help but flick his wipers once, twice, three times, before he managed to settle for a neutral, “I had always wondered at the origin of that particular quirk or yours,” but then he _ruined_ it by adding in a disapproving tone, “It does not seem to have curbed your predilection for such displays.”

He sank on his wheels. That was _not_ what he’d wanted to say. 

But to his relief, Wheeljack laughed, the bright and only slightly self-deprecating sound cutting through the tension like a plasma torch. “Yeah, well,” he gave another full-chassis shrug, “You didn’t know me before I joined your unit. Believe me; the last week has been virtually explosion-free compared to what it was like back on Cybertron before the Wreckers were formed.” He settled, then shifted, digging his wheels into the ever present dirt of this planet with his wheels. “We’ve all got our glitches and our different ways of coping. So… write your stupid reports, if it makes you feel better. I’m always gonna hate it when you do it, but it ain’t gonna ever matter as long as it’s the eight of us and the little bits verses Megatron and his goons.” He laughed again, this time short and derisive. “Besides, I think the universe’d implode if you and me ever started getting along properly.”

Was that disrespect? Given everything he knew about Wheeljack, both from centuries serving with him before he’d deserted and here on Earth, he thought not, so there was no incremental tensing of struts and wires as he replied, “That is most likely true.”

Wheeljack made one last left-right motion with his front wheels, deepening the furrow he’d made, then settled, saying nothing.

Ultra Magnus took advantage of the silence to fill out reports, but despite Wheeljack’s explicit permission to do so he still didn’t file them properly. He just continued to archive them in his memory, but somehow the knowledge that Wheeljack… wouldn’t… well, Magnus couldn’t say that Wheeljack wouldn’t mind, because he’d said that he _would_ but he’d still given Magnus the assurance that he wouldn’t break up this “family” over it, given him _permission_ …

A superior officer didn’t need a subordinate’s permission to put him on report for insubordination and disobeying orders and every one of Wheeljack’s other usual antics, but perhaps a family member did, because having that permission made the self-soothing more, well, soothing. HIs struts relaxed and his wires unkinked at a record pace as his signed report after report and archived them.

He was feeling almost giddy with relaxation by the time he was done. Wires that hadn’t been properly aligned in centuries suddenly popped back into place with an accompanying tingle of charge that left his processor fuzzy, almost drunk. The core of tension deep in his spark that he refused to acknowledge was still there, but… maybe it was the tipsy, overcharged feeling that made him brave enough to ask, “What is the other reason you carry only one grenade?” 

Wheeljack’s headlights tilted in a slight frown. “It’s not really a second reason, really, just two parts of the same reason. First’s to remove a bita temptation, make it harder for me to just blow everything up the way I used to; second’s… “ The green and white car sighed again, sinking on his wheels, “it’s a reminder: there’s more than one way of accomplishing the same goal and you’ve just got to work with what you have.”

Bulkhead… Wheeljack… _Miko_ … this newest incarnation of the Wreckers was far from elite Autobot material, but (like Wheeljack and his single grenade) he had to work with what he was given.

And perhaps part of working with new circumstance, he needed to find a new way to self-soothe, he thought as he signed another three citations for various Autobots (one of them _Prime_ ) and archived them. He’d be sure to do that. 

Another signature. 

Later.

.

.

fini

.


End file.
